


Water, Water Everywhere!

by Sammelsurium



Category: Vingt mille lieues sous les mers | Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea - Jules Verne
Genre: (Something of a QPR), Ambiguously Aromantic, Friends With Benefits, M/M, The Inherent Eroticism of the Sea, wildly inaccurate interpretation of science geography and canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:15:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22904587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sammelsurium/pseuds/Sammelsurium
Summary: In which the France of 1866 is slightly more sex-positive, and Pierre Aronnax falls in love with the sea.
Relationships: Pierre Aronnax & Conseil, Pierre Aronnax & Ned Land, Pierre Aronnax/Capitaine Nemo | Pierre Aronnax/Captain Nemo
Comments: 5
Kudos: 22





	Water, Water Everywhere!

Aronnax wakes up crowded against the wall. He wipes his face--drenched in sweat--and tries to extricate himself from the covers. He does not know how he got so sweaty. The ship’s temperature is regulated through some strange physical science involving the heat of the sun and the cool of the ocean and engineering that is far beyond his education, but his room is small and stuffy and  _ far  _ too hot. He does not remember his room being quite so hot before.

He peels the blanket from his face and pulls himself up into a seated position. He realizes that he is not in his own room.

He supposes it makes sense that he is in the captain’s room. He did walk into this room just last night, with the captain. They did sit down on this bed and, for some hours, converse over the movements of the stars and seas. They did, at some point, stop conversing.

Aronnax’s cheeks heat.

Someone has thoughtfully left his clothes folded neatly on the ground beside the bed. They are not the clothes he wore last night--those have disappeared entirely--but Aronnax decides not to worry about it, and gets dressed as quickly as he can. There is a glass of water on the desk, which he drinks in one gulp. He’s hungry, and he needs to piss; he also needs to think. He doesn’t know if he should leave or wait here, in this stuffy little room that smells like Captain Nemo. Wait for the captain. The  _ Captain. _

He opts to sit uncomfortably at the captain’s desk. He lets his eyes wander, but there’s not much to see: the room is unembellished and small, most of the space taken up by the desk and the bed. The desk is stacked with a set of neat folders and lined with several dozen well-used notebooks. The bed is scarcely large enough for one person, and not at all large enough for two.

Aronnax rubs his face. Yesterday, such details had not seemed particularly important; trivial, when measured against the whisper of the sheets or the warm pressure upon his skin. And perhaps the details really are irrelevant, for he does not know if he will return to this room again. He wants to talk to the captain and find out.

He also wants to find out what the captain sees fit to keep in his private rooms. Desperately.

He tries to bring his eyes back down to his lap so he can stop feeling like a common intruder, but his curiosity is stronger than his courtesy. He turns to the desk, and the dozen defenseless folders stacked upon it. Are there ship schematics in one of those folders? Diary entries? The secret to the captain’s past? There is one misaligned paper in the topmost folder, the corner just barely peaking out. The words “Atlantic” and “ice” make themselves visible along the edge of the paper.

Aronnax shouldn’t look. He is a guest.

It could be the route to their mysterious destination. It could be the key to their escape.

Aronnax sits still for a few minutes, filled with a restless anxiety. does not want the captain to be his enemy this morning; but while he is held captive on this ship, enemies they must be.

After a few minutes, he reaches to examine the paper more closely. He pulls it out a little, catching a few more words: “underland passage”; “secret depths”; “history.” He pulls the paper out further.

Just then, footsteps sound in the passageway, and he hurriedly stuffs it back into the folder once more. The door starts to open, and Aronnax pushes his chair away from the desk. He looks up at the captain and smiles. “Good morning.”

The captain looks down at him expressionlessly: his eyes are sharp, his uniform impeccable. “Good morning to you too,” he says. “I hope you slept well.” 

Aronnax nods, heat rising to his cheeks. Aronnax is sweaty and loose-limbed and deeply inadequate. “I did.” Aronnax doesn’t know how Nemo can remain so dispassionate.  _ He  _ can’t. Not when he can remember the salt on the captain’s tongue, or the captain’s teeth hot against his neck. Not when they've spent the night tangled up together in the same too-small bed. "Thank you for having me,” he says inadequately. “It was… "

He gives a little cough. It's been a long time since he last did something like this. The captain sits down on the bed, posture straight. “You needn’t be embarrassed, Aronnax. We are beyond the strictures of society here. And if it is not embarrassement… ” The captain gives him a searching look. “Then it is far preferable that you say so now.”

A knock. Captain Nemo rises and goes to the door, where a crew member hands him two servings of food. He gives one to Aronnax, along with a hot towel. “Clean up,” he advises. He continues, “I do genuinely hope to know that you enjoyed our time together, professor.”

Aronnax scrubs his face with the towel in lieu of a response. Nemo is as inscrutable as usual, and Aronnax isn’t sure how he feels himself. It might be better if he leaves now, and they never mention this again. He believes the captain would not hold it against him.

But: Nemo does not seem uninterested in further relations. And Aronnax… 

Nemo is watching him. Aronnax looks down at his meal. Some sort of fish. He looks up. “I did,” he says, face hot. “And you know. I would be amenable to more… more of this.”

“More sex,” Nemo says. His face is impassive, but something has relaxed in his posture. He takes a bite of food, his eyes on Aronnax’s. Aronnax does the same, with considerably less self-possession. He’s unsure of what’s happened to them, beyond the bare physicality. But, reflecting uponit, he thinks it’s really quite nice.

Conseil almost frowns when Aronnax walks into the dining room, a few hours later. “Monsieur did not sleep in our cabin last night.”

Aronnax considers his companion for a moment. He does not want to put a name to something so fresh, and he cannot explain it himself in sufficient detail as to think that Conseil would understand. The servant will not push if his master does not wish it, but he’s never been slow on the uptake. He’ll have some idea of what happened whether Aronnax tells all or not, and allowing him to figure it out himself will waylay certain awkward conversations. But Aronnax has not held conversation with Conseil--awkward or otherwise--in quite some time, and he knows secrets will only push them further apart. 

“I had other arrangements,” he manages.

The servant’s brow rises a fraction of an inch. “Oh?”

“With the captain,” he elaborates.

Conseil pauses, mouth half open. Then he closes it and blushes. “ _ That _ sort of arrangement.” he says.

“Indeed.”

There is a moment of silence--etiquette, unfortunately, cannot bridge every gap. Conseil coughs. “Is monsieur planning on making such  _ arrangements _ in the future?” he asks. “For my own peace of mind. Should I find your bed vacant again.”

Aronnax fights a smile.“Yes,” he says. “I rather think I am.”

“Wonderful,” says Conseil. “It has been quite a while.”

It’s not an insult from Conseil’s mouth, but a statement of truth. Aronnax grins fully, feeling more loose than he has since they entered  _ The Nautilus _ . “It  _ has _ . But it’s more than that.”

Conseil nods. “Of course.”

And Aronnax is ready to recount their entire conversation on continental drift and volcanic activity in the west pacific. Then Ned comes in.

“Good morning,” he says, grabbing a plate of fish. “Or afternoon, maybe.”

“Oh-- Good afternoon,” says Aronnax.

“Where have  _ you _ been all day?” asks Ned. Aronnax is slow to respond, so he looks at Conseil, who shrugs. “Do I want to know?”

“I was with the captain,” Aronnax admits.

Ned swallows. “All night?”

“I was  _ with  _ the captain.”

“I see,” Ned says. He is frowning. “Good for you, I suppose.”

“It is.”

“Just remember,” says Ned, it won’t last forever.

Aronnax stops smiling. “Of course.”  _ Of course.  _ “I know that.”

“Unless you would rather stay on the ship?”

“No. No, of course I’m coming. If we ever do manage to leave.”

“Good,” says Ned.

Silence falls. Conseil puts his hand on Aronnax’s. “Monsieur knows that I will join him on whatever path he chooses to take.” But Aronnax thinks he sees a glimmer of anxiety in the servant’s eye.

Conseil has no need to fear. Aronnax knows the three of them must escape, even if it means he must leave his work behind. Ned wishes they left weeks ago--he’s as good as clawing at the walls as soon as they dip beneath the surface. And Conseil may know the scientific name of every specimen in the Museum, but he has never loved the sea. Not like Aronnax. Not like Nemo.

No. They have to escape. But that doesn’t mean Aronnax cannot enjoy himself for now.

Little changes in the following weeks. Perhaps Conseil and Ned are a little more distant; perhaps Captain Nemo is a little bit closer.  _ The Nautilus _ shows no signs of slowing down, steaming across the Indian Ocean towards a destination known to none but its captain. Aronnax works and works. The long-familiar hunger that once lay in the pit of his stomach is gone--for awhile, at least--and he is grateful for it. But he knows he cannot work like this forever.

One evening, the captain pulls him away from dinner. Aronnax is surprised--they only met here last night, and the captain is neither needy nor discourteous. Aronnax is not especially inclined to complain. They rush to the cabin, but the captain only snatches up his notebook and pen before pulling Aronnax up to the bridge. 

They make for the pilot house. Nemo lets go of Aronnax and takes the helm. Aronnax hasn’t a clue what the man is doing, so he turns away and gazes through the porthole. He blinks, and blinks once more. That cannot be.

It’s pure black outside the ship. So black that Aronnax wonders if something’s obscured the lens, because even at night some small amount of starlight should penetrate these waters. Unless they’ve gone deeper than he thought. He squints into the formless black. It squirms before his eyes, wriggling away from comprehension. Are those lights in the distance? Do they belong to other ships? Some miraculous, as-of-yet-undiscovered leviathan?

He looks more closely, but it’s no use: the light might be ten feet away or ten thousand. Or it might not be there at all. “Where are we?” he asks.

“Two thousand kilometers beyond the coast of Japan,” the captain says. “Perhaps two leagues beneath the surface.”

That’s deep. Deeper than they’ve ever gone before. “Are you sure we have enough air?” Aronnax asks.

“Enough for a few days,” says the captain. “But this is worth the trouble. Look at it! Entirely new territory, alien to all mankind.”

There’s not much to look at--or maybe there is, beyond the black veil that obscures their vision. 

Aronnax giggles helplessly. Here, in the darkness, he can imagine that this little room is his entire world, his entire life. It is easy to forget France, and Europe, and the world of men entirely. And all that remains is him and the captain and the darkened seas that they forever sail through. He feels strangely afloat, and less alone than he ever has before.

In another life, he would never be forced to leave such a place. 

Captain Nemo is not looking at him: he’s configuring the collection of levers and wires before him carefully, his fingers quick and sure. His eyes are more focused than usual; his hair is charmingly askew, a rare sight. Aronnax would kiss him right there, if it would not break his concentration. Maybe he ought to anyways.

Nemo takes a breath, grinning, and turns his eyes towards the lens, and Aronnax is distracted from his musings. “Prepare yourself, professor.”

The ship lights come on.

The sea comes alive. 

The world explodes back into existence.

The lights cut only so far into the darkness, but it is enough. They skim a dozen feet above the sea floor--though not a sea floor Aronnax has ever seen before. The plants are fleshy and dark, hardy and fluted, interspersed with massive mollusks and pale fungi that have never seen the light of day. Long-limbed crabs scuttle through the undergrowth, snatching at the snow of organic matter falling from above, and the small, flickering lights Arronax saw before resolve themselves into all manner of tiny fish, glowing with a dim blue phosphoresence. 

“Captain,” he says, a little breathlessly, “It’s…” 

“Beautiful.” Nemo’s voice is subdued, his eyes on the sight before them. “It’s beautiful.”

Aronnax presses his fingers to the cold glass. “It’s another world.” Drawn-out eels and carnivorous worms. Bleached-white squids and blue-glowing crawdads. Creatures never touched by human eyes. “It’s  _ revolutionary.  _ There must be hundreds-- _ thousands-- _ of new species down there. This could be the beginning of a whole new field of study, if--if only--” He halts, tears in the corners of his eyes.

The captain takes up his notepaper, starts to write, still unable to tear his eyes from the depths. “Someday, perhaps, men will know of this wonder.” He pauses. “But for now it is ours, and ours alone.”

Aronnax shivers a little, saying nothing. The two men stand in silence for some time. The Nautilus sails on.

For all he’s learned in the past few months, Arronax finds himself growing irritated by the long list of things he doesn’t know. No matter how hard he works, the list only seems to become longer, gathering such questions as: who is Captain Nemo? why do cachalots display such a distinct pathology among their genus? and why do his friends go quiet whenever he enters the room?

Aronnax doesn’t know when Conseil and Ned got so close. He tries to ask Conseil, and the servant distracts him with talk of his observations on red tide. He tries to talk to Ned, and the harpooner claims he has duties to the crew. All too often, he ends up talking to Nemo, and he starts to wonder if he has been pushing his friends away all along. 

He cannot press. He knows it would only push them further. And perhaps they are right to distrust him. Perhaps he  _ has _ been spending too much time with Nemo, for it is growing clear that the man’s madness is rubbing off on him.

Aronnax has always loved the sea, but now the land is so distant a memory that he no longer misses it. He does not remember the faces of his colleagues, nor those of his friends. He cannot picture his apartments in Paris. Awfully dusty, those rooms were; but what is Paris but a series of dusty rooms? What is the university, but a collection of dusty old men who are afraid to go to sea?

Aronnax went on only one expedition in his youth, before he felt the need to return those musty halls. That was a great mistake on his part, one that he has now been given an opportunity to rectify--though  _ The Nautilus  _ is an entirely different sort of ship than any he’s been on before. His new work has returned the spirit of inquiry to him, but will it survive the return home?

He can only hope. Even if he knows that the latest developments in the taxonomy of boneless fish have none of the excitement of the abyssal depths of the sea; that he sees greater beauty in the water rushing past the windows of the ship than he ever found in the stacks of the Museum; even if he’s learned more on  _ The Nautilus  _ than in all his years at university, and he’s made more scientific progress in the past six months than in his entire previous career. Maybe he can reproduce that vigor at home. Maybe the discoveries he’s made here will be enough to propel him to academic success in the university, to bolster his spirits against the tedium of academia. Maybe he has learned how to be happy--and all that’s left is to apply his method.

He has no choice but to go home. So he’ll hope for the future, and enjoy this while it lasts.

“What horrors await us today?” he asks, running his fingers down the captain’s chest.

The captain shrugs, pulling Aronnax closer. “I wouldn’t know,” he says, his hand moving up Aronnax’s thigh. “The sea does hold secrets yet, even from me.”

“How disappointing.”

“Lout,” says the captain, pushing his fingers through Aronnax’s hair. “Next time, I’ll find somewhere particularly horrible, just for you.”

If there is something playful in the captain’s tone, Aronnax is entirely beyond interpreting it. He makes a terribly unseemly noise into the man’s neck.

“Quite right,” the captain says, his own voice strained. He opts against further speech. Aronnax approves.

They breakfast an hour later. Aronnax still isn’t perfectly comfortable walking past the crewmen on mornings like this. They do not say anything, but he imagines their eyes on the back of his neck, measuring his value against the captain’s. And for all he tries to hide it, Conseil does not approve of Aronnax being with the captain in any fashion, professional or personal. It is not enough to make Arronax stop.

Today, Conseil is waiting at the table when they arrive. “Would monsieur like his belongings moved to the captain’s cabin?” he asks. He looks subdued, like he already knows the answer; which is odd, because Aronnax isn’t quite sure himself.

“Why would you ask that?” he says.

Conseil’s eyebrows rise. “Beg pardon,” he says, “But monsieur  _ has _ spent the last five consecutive nights in Captain Nemo’s cabin.”

Heat rises unbidden to Aronnax’s cheeks. “I hadn’t noticed.” Perhaps he has spent a little too much time in the captain’s quarters. In his defense, it hasn’t  _ all  _ been sex. There are also maps, and diagrams, and conversations--conservations with unlikely hypotheses and scientific breakthroughs spread liberaly throughout in such a manner as to be irresistible to any reputable scientist. Aronnax cannot deny Conseil’s assessment: by the progress they had made in their latest discussion, he knows he would spend tonight there too, and tomorrow, and almost certainly the night after that. “You make a fair point. I will have to talk about it with the captain.”

Conseil nods and excuses himself, polite as ever. He walks over to Ned and whispers something in his ear that Aronnax cannot hear. Which is worrying. The Canadian hasn’t mentioned escape to Aronnax in days, and Aronnax knows he has not stopped planning for it. He only hopes they will tell him when they actually plan to execute it. 

But the Captain comes back, and Aronnax no longer wishes to think about escape.

“Aronnax,” says Nemo, “Do you know what phenomenon is peculiar to this region of the  Aegean Sea ?”

Aronnax smiles. “I’m afraid I don’t.” But the captain looks like he has an explanation waiting.

They sail northwards. Aronnax learns that underwater volcanoes are magnificent, that he enjoys waking up next to someone, and that the captain is very sensitive in the small of his back. He lives in willful ignorance of future plans--at least for a while.

“We might escape soon,” Conseil tells him one evening, when they meet in the passageway.

“Oh.” Aronnax frowns. “But we’re just off the coast of Africa. We can’t… ” He trails off, unsure where this is going.

“I am sure monsieur knows what the captain plans to do with this ship?”

Aronnax frowns. “I’m not sure.” He has the vaguest idea of where they’re going.  _ How, when,  _ and  _ why  _ are the captain’s secrets.

“Monsieur Land says our goal is the Mediterranean,” Conseil says. “I do not know by what passage he imagines us getting there, but he believes it is so, and he is making preparations.”

“Thank you for telling me, Conseil,” Aronnax says. His servant, at least, is beyond reproach.

“Monsieur… ” says Conseil. He presses his lips together. “You  _ are  _ coming with us?”

“Of course.” He knows it is the right answer.

Conseil relaxes fractionally. And nonetheless: “You are sure?”

“Yes, Conseil.” Even if Aronnax does not miss the society of men, he knows Conseil does. He will not chain his servant to this submarine for the rest of his life. “I’ll bring my research with me, of course.” The world will wonder at what Aronnax has seen; he’ll be the envy of all his colleagues. He might get a promotion.

“Of course,” Conseil echoes. He touches Aronnax’s arm. “I am sorry, monsieur.”

They part ways. Aronnax hopes it will be a while yet before they surface in European waters.

He returns to the study and bows his head in his hands. Really, it does not matter: be it this month or the next, they shall surely be leaving many years too soon.

“We’re coming up to the surface,” the captain says. “If you’d like to come up with me… ”

Aronnax looks up from his breakfast. “Outside?” It’s been months since he’s been out of the sea; longer since they left home.

“It’s time we take air,” Nemo says. “And you can trust that this particular location is quite isolated.”

It ought to be--they are somewhere in the sea of Greenland. Aronnax has no idea why Nemo would  _ want  _ to open the hatch in such a place.

Still. He has not seen the sky unobscured in months, and he does miss the sun. “I’m coming,” he says.

They leave the dining room and takes the passage to the hatch, hand in hand. Aronnax catches his breath when he sees light through the hatchway, and starts to move a bit faster. He scrambles up the ladder to the platform on top of the ship, and suddenly there’s nothing between him and the sky. Is this freedom?

Aronnax wants to see the sea, and not through a window, but for a moment the light is too bright. For a moment, he has to shield his eyes, kneeling there on the deck of the gently rocking submarine. His hands are sticky with half-dry salt, and the sun is warm against his back. He takes a moment to savor it.

The captain lays a hand on his shoulder. “Look up.”

Aronnax does so, and gasps. Wheeling in the air, two hundred meters in front of them, is the biggest flock of birds he’s ever seen. They rush towards the ship, a black flood against the endless blue, before swooping sharply upwards as one black ribbon: hundreds, thousands or birds in perfect synchrony. 

A few drop away to snatch fish from the water, while still more approach from the horizon; they seem to be nesting on the sharp gray cliffs to the east, sharp blades cutting up through the open sea.

Aronnax’s eyes are watering from the sun, but he can’t stop staring. “They’re lovely,” he says.

“I saw them in my youth,” says the captain. “It was very long ago. I… I think there are more than I remembered.”

“Wish I had a gun,” says Ned Land. He and Conseil were on deck as well, along with a half-dozen other men. “Or a javelin, perhaps. We hunted seabirds back in Canada--still do, I suppose. Good meat.”

“We have some harpoons,” says Captain Nemo. He calls something to a crew member, who goes down into the shipm returning a minute later with six small hand-held harpoons.

Ned’s eyes widen. “May I?”

“Be my guest.”

Ned sneers at that, but takes one nonetheless. He hefts it over his shoulder with two practiced hands and aims for a single bird as it spirals gracefully into the water. On the upturn of its dive, he shoots.

The harpoon smacks it back to the water, killing it instantly. Ned reels it in with some satisfaction. He lays the bird gently upon the deck and takes aim for another. 

Other sailors waste no time claiming the other harpoons, and soon the collection of birds grows to a couple dozen. Aronnax has never been much of a shot, so he goes to set next to Ned and watch the birds. 

“Haven’t lost your touch, I see,” he says, when Ned drops a razorbill fifty meters distant.

“Nonsense,” grunts Ned. “The shot was late. But I’ll soon return to my old form.” His chest is heaving, his face no longer wan and drawn out.

“You’re quite alright?” asks Aronnax.

“Just fine. Fresh air does wonders for the constitution.” Ned sighs. “Nothing like it is in Canada, though. Stinks of salt here. Stinks of rot. God knows when I’ll breath Canadian air again.”

“Soon, hopefully,” Aronnax says, though he doubts it to be true. “It’s a beautiful country. Canada.”

“Of course it is.” Ned humphs and looks at Aronnax. There’s steel in his eyes, and possibly something else. “Do you miss France?”

“I… I suppose.”

Ned turns back towards the sea, taking aim. “What do you miss?” He shoots. The bird falls. “A worldly man like you… tell me about worldly things.”

“Well,” says Aronnax, searching for something true. “I miss my students. The university.” There might be something there.

“Is that all?”

“I miss walking,” he said, and that was fairly true. “I can walk on the ship, but it’s different, I suppose. And I miss red meat, and good french bread.”

Ned laughs. “Of course you do.  _ I  _ miss French bread.”

Arronax smiles thoughfully. “I miss the parks,” he says, “and the ponds, and the Seine, as filthy as it was. And I miss the feeling of rain on my face--”

Ned’s harpoon clanks to the ground. “Your spirits are higher than mine,” he says, smiling grimly. “I won’t be able to stand  _ looking  _ at water again, once I get home. And here you are lusting for it when you have a whole ocean to satisfy your thirst.”

“It was different at home,” snaps Arronax. Different, but not better. “Memories fade; mind departs. I do beg pardon if my small melancholies do not match your own.”

He drops his bird on the pile before taking up the javelin up again. “Beg pardon, professor,” he says his voice rough. “But what I miss is my wife. My mother. My dog. ”

He shoots. He strikes. “Maybe a ground beneath my feet as well,” he continues. “A house to call my own.”

He reels in the bird and looks at Aronnax. The anger is gone from his face, leaving only sadness. “I’m sorry, professor,” he says. “I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

He sniffs, wipes the bird blood off on his shirt, and keeps shooting. Arronax watches him for a moment. He does not remember when Ned became so haggard. So worn.

Arronax is wearing thin himself; so he turns instead to watch the birds. They followed a pattern he cannot identify, one he wants to watch until he can. Seamen and seabirds they are. Together, for a moment, in the space between water and air.

The sailors return below deck the same time the birds begin to fly back to their nests. The men do not want to sequester themselves once more, but time is short on the surface. Night is falling already, and rain clouds lie on the horizon.

They eat well for the next few days. Then one of the electric lines shorts, and they are back to work. The captain pushes the ship onwards, eager to leave these water so close to land, and the hard pace of repairs puts everyone in a black mood.

Aronnax has no work, and the captain has no time for him, so he ends up in the viewing room more often than not. There he finds Conseil. 

The servant sits before the window, watching the fish rush by. He sketches his pictures and takes his notes in his quiet, unnoticeable way, not hearing Aronnax enter. With some hesitation, the professor moves to sits next to him. “You are well, Conseil?”

He looks surprised. Has it been so long since Aronnax talked to him? “Of course, master.”

He doesn’t look well. His eyes have become slightly sunken in recent months, and his skin hangs off his bones. The sea has never been good for his constitution. “Well, home is not so distant as it once was.”

Conseil smiles cautiously. “Yes.”

“Do you miss it?” Aronnax asks. “Paris? The museum?”

“Paris, not so much,” Conseil says, gazing through the window with unfocused eyes. “I have never cared for the city.”

“No?”

“But my mother and father,” he says, “I miss them. And my little sisters. I worry.”

“Of course,” Aronnax says. He has never spoken to Conseil about his sisters; he has none himself, nor bothers, and his parents were long gone.

“We’ve been half a year on this ship, at least,” Conseil goes on, “And they were just about to leave for school when we left. My parents are quite infirm--how shall they hold up without me? And should we ever return home, there is no accounting for our position in the university. If we have been replaced--and I have little hope that we have not been--how shall I make money?”

“I do not think we shall have trouble finding a place,” Aronnax says. “With the discoveries we have made already, I doubt they can sideline us.”

“The discoveries monsieur has made,” says Conseil, “will not get him very far, if he does not have evidence.”

“Well, I shall bring my notes.”

“Monsieur thinks his  _ notes _ will provide adequate evidence for a ship such as this?”

“There are other eyewitnesses,” Aronnax says. “Ned Land, for one, and you for another. And those from the ships that have been rammed--I have no doubt that the men of the  _ Abraham Lincoln  _ will provide testimony in our support.”

Conseil falls silent, though Aronnax doubts it is because he has changed his mind. “I apologize, monsieur,” he says. “My emotions have gotten the better of me.”

“There is no issue, Conseil.”

Aronnax has no wish to speak further, and neither does Conseil. So far out in open sea, there are few fish, so they can only watch the water whip and whorl over the window.

Even if Aronnax can prove the existence of the ship, there is little he can do to convince his colleagues of everything else. And indeed, who will believe that fish glowed at the bottom of the sea, or that sharks with twisted faces populated the depths of the Pacific? Who will believe in undersea waterfalls, or hundreds-of-kilometers-long cracks in the sea floor? Who will believe the distances they’ve traveled, the sights they’ve seen, the beauties they’ve witnessed, even if they saw it with their own eyes?

None of the university men, surely. The dean will be scornful, the professors sneering. To come home from being lost at sea with stories of wonders wholly unimagined?  _ He’s lost more than six months, _ they will say. They will declare him mad, force out of his office, and replace him with a younger man--and all his discoveries will go to waste.

But aren’t they going to waste here as well? Will it not be a waste, a terrible tragedy, when  _ The Nautilus  _ finally slips beneath the waves? What does a man do with such a bounty of knowledge, when there is no one willing to accept it?

They go south--as far south as man can hope to go. And then they turn north again, in the holding pattern that the captain keeps, has kept for what must be years, waiting for some unknown horizon. Aronnax has not asked him where they are going. He cannot help but know: he is running out of time.

The captain notices when he does not show enthusiasm at this sea ridge or that shipwreck. The captain asks pointed questions--as his questions tend to be--and Aronnax smiles uneasily. “Just a little homesick,” he lies. “It’s been six months, you know. Since we boarded this ship.”

The captain looks at him like he’s trying to divine some terrible truth in his eyes. “Of course,” he says. “I embarked on this journey eighteen years ago, and I have missed home every day since.”

“I’m sorry,” Aronnax says.

The captain shakes his head, turns away. “I chose this fate.”

Aronnax does not deserve the captain’s secrets. He excuses himself.

“We’re leaving tonight,” says Ned Land.

Aronnax nods miserably. The coast is in sight. The ship is up for air. The moon is bright over their heads.

He turns away. This is to be his last night on the  _ Nautilus _ . He does not know whether to celebrate or mourn. Neither would be wise, he tells himself, until the night is done. “Do you think my notes would survive the journey?”

Ned frowns out the sea, not looking like he cares a jot about Aronnax’s notes. “I doubt it,” he says. “But they are better half ruined than going down with this ship.”

That would not be better at all. “I’ll need to bring them along,” Aronnax says.

Ned shrugs. “No skin off my back. So long as you’re discreet about it.”

Aronnax feels a certain anger nuilding, right in the pit of his stomach. Conseil breaks in. “Monsieur’s notes will be fine, surely,” he says. “Once we are in the boat, there is very little risk at all. So long as we wrap them securely.”

“I doubt  _ wrapping-- _ ”

Conseil cuts Ned off with a look, before turning a softer gaze onto Aronnax. “It will be alright, monsieur. We have nothing to fear.”

“Of course, Conseil. You are right.” So Aronnax hopes. He certainly is not himself. “Once we are off this damned ship, everything will come together once more.”

Ned pats him on the back. “Too right, professor,” he says. “Now we’d best get to our preparations. Separately.”

They nod, and break apart.

Aronnax does not sleep that night. He waits a while after the captain’s breathing evens, watching the man’s face. Rumpled and strong: handsome as the first day he saw it. If all goes as planned, he’ll never see that face again.

Around midnight, he puts himself to the task of getting over the captain and off the bed. His movements are careful. The man does not wake up. Aronnax gathers his notes, stripped down to their bare rudiments and wrapped in the cuttings of waterproof cloth, and tucks them under his nightshirt. He turns to look at the captain. He leaves

He meets Conseil and Ned on the  quarter deck . In silent agreement, they open the hatch. 

Water splashes down momentarily, before they struggle out and slam shut the hatch. The ship sails just below the surface, but its easy to fight the thin waves splashing up over it. The lights of Lisbon sparkle to the east. Amassive algae bloom casts a glow over the sea before them.

Are you sure we can swim that?” asks Aronnax.

Ned is already removing his boots. “I think this is the easiest swim we’ll have for a good long way,” he says. “Unless you would rather return to bed, and put off leaving entirely.”

“Monsieur is ready?” Conseil asks. Arronax just gapes, but Conseil reads it precisely. He nods. “Ned, you may leave, but I shall stay until monsieur has the spirits to go.”

Aronnax shakes his head to clear it. “No. I’m ready. But here,” he says, pulling out his notes. “Conseil--take these, if you can. Or Ned. You are both better swimmers than I, and I should like my work to survive. If I… ”

Conseil takes hold of them. “We would like  _ monsieur  _ to survive as well,” he says.

“Quite right,” says Ned. “Blast it with your notes, we want you! It ought to be all of us or none of us.”

Aronnax bites his lip. Were it not for his friends, this would be no choice at all. “Go on. Lead the way, and I’ll follow.”

“Will you?” Ned asks. His eyes shine in the faint light. He smiles. “No. I don’t think you will.”

But Conseil takes a step towards Aronnax. “You are dissembling, monsieur.” His eyes are down. He is resigned to hsi fate. “We can stay. There will be other opportunities in the future.”

Aronnax does not want more opportunities. He does not think there will be any, either. He steps to the edge, looking down into the water. He crouches. “No,” he says. “I’m ready. We should go now.”

“We should,” says Ned, narrowing his eyes. None of them move.

Something sounds down below. A crash, faint through the metal but audible nonetheless. They all jump.

“I’ll go first,” says Ned. “You two-- _ follow. _ ”

And then he’s in the water, cutting sharply towards the Portuguese coast. Conseil’s smile is not quite so polite as usual. “After you, monsieur,” he says.

“Conseil!  _ Go! _ ” Aronnax grabs his arm. “Think of your mother! Your sisters!”

Conseil folds his arms. “I am thinking of _ monsieur. _ ”

“Then listen to me!” Arronax says. “Take my work! I’d rather my discoveries survive than I! Go!”

He tries to grab Conseil by the shoulders, but Conseil jumps away. Conseil slips, scrabbling for purchase on the smooth ship. He loses Arronax’s papers, swept away with the river, and Arronax no longer cares.

He fears for his servant. Conseil will not leave without Arronax, and Arronax should want to go. But he cannot bring himself to jump any more than Conseil can bear to leave him behind.

The hatch creaks. Conseil turns to look, half upright. In his distraction, Aronnax takes hold of his shoulders and shoves him over the side. 

Conseil tumbles backwards off the ship. Arronax watches as he uprights himself in the waves. For a moment, Conseil tries to swim towards the ship, but it’s hopeless. 

Finally, Arronax sees him give up, and turn to make for the coast. He’s following Ned, still further in the distance. Arronax thinks they will survive.

The door opens behind him. Slowly, Arronax turns. He smiles into the captain’s eyes.

“Good evening,” he says. His eyes burn. “I’m sorry I came up, but I just had an urge to see the stars… ”

The captain stares at him for moment in disbelief; then he rushes past him, looking at the sea.

Aronnax looks too, and can no longer hold back his tears. His friends have to be half a kilometer out, and the gap is growing. They are young and strong, and there is no turning the ship now. They are lost to him. They have escaped.

“We cannot go closer to shore,” says the captain. “We should not have come so close to begin with.”

He turns. His voice was soft, but his face is contorted with so much rage that Aronnax has to take a step back. Some crew members have come up as well, and they take him by the arms. The captain walks up to him. “You knew the rules of this ship,” he says. “I told you that you were not to leave. None of you were. And yet you chose to betray me.”

Truly, Aronnax made a choice. It was not one of betrayal. “I chose my friends’ freedom,” he growls. “I chose the world’s knowledge.”

“Damn the world!” roars Nemo. “Damn all of mankind! And damn your friends, and you as well, if you cannot appreciate the bounty I have laid before you. I thought you understood, Aronnax. You, of all men! You--”

“Why do you think I chose to stay?” interrupts Aronnax, and Nemo goes silent. “Don’t be a fool, captain.  _ You  _ should understand that.”

The captain’s face blotches an angry red. “I’ll toss you overboard,” he threatens, “Somewhere you can’t swim home from.”

Aronnax shrugs and drops his head. If he is not suited to land, nor welcome upon  _ The Nautilus,  _ he supposes that does leave only the sea. He has no more words in him tonight.

The captain says something in his strange language to the men holding him, and they drag him back down into the ship.

They leave him locked up in his suite. His old one. It is stripped down to a white-sheeted bed and a bare desk--more sparsely furnished than it was when he first arrived six months ago--and Aronnax has nothing to do but sleep and think.

When they start giving him regular meals, it becomes clear that they do not intend throw him overboard. At least, not any time soon. Aronnax does not know why Nemo abides him, but he knows it must be the captain’s decision.

It’s a week later when the captain visits, by Aronnax’s mark--though he has little certainty of that from the bowels of the ship. Nemo’s face is thinner than usual. His eyes are harder.

“Why did you stay?” he asks.

Aronnax picks at his food. “I thought you understood that.”

“Then why did you betray me?”

Aronnax looks up. “Now, that might be harder for you to see.” He has not banished bitterness in its entirety. He thinks he deserves a little. “It’s a natural law, you understand--friendship breeds betrayal. And I have never culled the herd as I ought, which is what leads us to this state affairs. Last week I had three friends. Today, I have none.”

The captain laughs. “Three friends, and you stay here with me? You are not as clever as I remembered.”

“And you are far more obtuse.” Aronnax pauses. Does he want to continue down this road? “You do not have to be forever alone.”

“I rather think I do, if this is what comes of companionship.”

“If you want this to end here,” says Aronnax, “I cannot stop you.”

The captain looks at him. The anger is not completely gone from his eyes. It never has been, Aronnax realizes--not in all the time he’s known him. But he thinks it is no longer directed towards him.

A small improvement, at any rate.

“Would you stay?” asks the captain. “Were I not keeping you here?”

Aronnax remembers the university. He remembers his papers, his letters. He remembers the earth beneath his feet and the sweet air of the countryside. He remembers Ned. He remembers Conseil.

“Don’t tell me you don’t miss it,” says the captain. “Crawling among the ants. The wars, the plagues, the miseries of the modern era. I do not know the appeals, but you would acclimate yourself easily, no doubt. And you would have your books, your frivolities.”

Aronnax imagines the sea, vast and dark and spread about before him. Him and his captain.

The captain turns to the wall, then back to Aronnax. “The secret is out, isn’t it?” He laughs. “Would you like to go back to Paris? To see your friends once more?” He reaches into his pocket, his fingers shaky. “Damn. Damn it all.”

Nemo is not a good man, perhaps. But he is a great one. He burns brightly, and Aronnax cannot help but flutter towards him on his frail, waterlogged wings.

Aronnax licks his lips. “I made my decision already.”

The captain freezes, key in his hand. They look at each other for a moment.

Nemo’s mouth twitches. Key in hand, he reaches for Aronnax’s cuffs.

“Well,” he says. “If you’re certain.”

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. The seabird scene is partially inspired by Adam Nicholson’s The Seabird’s Cry. It’s very good, and you should read it.  
> 2\. Nemo means “Nobody” in Latin. You know who else goes by that name?  
> 3\. I clearly have a type.  
> 4\. I wish there were more women in this book. Because there’s not a single live woman in the entire book? That was one of the motivations for a previous incarnation of this fic.  
> 5\. This was almost a semi-dystopian story where all the women in the world had tragically died of kills-all-women disease, and men had to take to the seas to survive (kills-all-women disease is a particular menace that plagues many older books (along with its sister illness, kills-some-women disease); it’s become less common in the modern era due to a combination of factors, including a higher rate of vaccination within novels and a lower level of bullshit tolerance among the reading population). But ultimately, I decides that that level of worldbuilding would have been difficult to fit naturally into the story, so I had to make some changes.  
> 6\. This was almost an A/B/O fic.  
> ...  
> 7\. Fun fact: in the first draft I mispelled Aronnax’s name consistently, throughout the entire fic. I did not realize that it was not, in fact, spelled “Arronax” until I was tagging the ships. I despise the French language.


End file.
